sacred pearl
by tunnelOFdawn
Summary: Wherein a female Matoba Seiji lives life unfettered, for all that her gender would undo her.


Matoba Seiji—quiet control.

Matoba Seiju—sacred pearl.

In one world, he is born with power in his name.

In this world, she is born with beauty in her name.

Beauty is its own power, but she chafes at the expectations shackling wrist and ankle. Exorcism stagnates in the long-lost traditions of olden Japan. They would have her be modest and pious, but she will not fade into the background. Her arrows will pierce the hearts of men and yōkai alike.

* * *

The crying—it never ends. A cry for mother's milk from a mother that no longer exists. Cradled in paternal arms, she _wails _. A cry for mother's love from a mother that no longer exists. Cradled in paternal arms, she _weeps_.

He mourns. A daughter born into this clan of his is no fortune at all. There is no room for the gentle to roam. There exist only the strong and the weak. He hesitates to teach his girl strength—to transmute girlish softness into boyish strength.

His wife, were she still here, would argue and reprimand him for his casual dismissal of women. To think that his daughter would be soft by virtue of her gender is no thought that his wife would abide by. But she is not here and he knows only himself. He teaches her _shame_.

* * *

"An arm guard?" Father scoffs. "You only need an arm guard if you have bad form." In his hands, a leather arm guard dangles tauntingly. He tosses it behind him.

Seiju frowns before glossing it over with a demure smile. "Of course, Father." _Whatever you say. _First, it was the denial of a finger tab and now her arm guard. As if she should be able to whip out her bow and draw an arrow on the fly. As if she had to abandon any "extraneous" gear before engaging yōkai. It's foolish, of course, but there is a certain machismo in exorcist culture that glorifies archery and other fighting techniques, to the detriment of caution.

Bruises bloom and burns sting on a forearm as Seiju practices her archery without her regular instructor. Only a beginner, she winces with every mistake. Father's disapproving eyes suffocate her. It tightens her chest and pricks at her eyes. Heat suffuses her pink. A humiliation she cannot bear comes to fruition.

"Had I a son…" Father begins to lecture, as well-worn and familiar as a coat too tight and thread-bare. She wonders when she will outgrow it. His words are white noise to Seiju. Her fists clench and her face clears of emotion. A vessel void of thought listens blankly.

* * *

She dreams of Matoba Seiji—a glimpse into another world. His hair is long and tied back with sections of hair hanging loose. A bow and arrow rests in his calloused hands. He pulls back the string and experiences the snap of string against bare forearm. He laughs softly.

She wakes up tired.

* * *

"How did Mother die?" Seiju asks boldly. She abandons all pretenses at acting prim and demure. Her head tilts up and up to stare into the dark eyes of her father. Like magnets, their similar eyes repulse. Her father looks away, a Pyrrhic victory Seiju is willing to claim.

A tongue darts out to wet dry lips. A quiet shuffle of clothes belie uncertainty. Seiju smiles coldly, pouncing on any sign of weakness. She leans forward with her eyes, dark and wide. The wet sheen to them pulls at heartstrings. _Just a girl missing her mother_, her body communicates.

Father rejects her. He stumbles a step back, as if he has seen a ghost in her beseeching eyes and in the tilt of her head. "You," he utters lowly. It strikes Seiju like a hammer on bone in condemnation. As if her existence negated her mother's.

Seiju knows when she is not wanted. She retreats from Father's study. The curve of her spine stiffens ramrod straight. The natural looseness to her gait tightens. But she does not tread lightly. Her every footfall is a thump that whispers of loneliness. There is only the sound of her footfalls in this silent home of hers.

* * *

"He's dead, isn't he?" Seiju asks. She does not require an answer. Yet all the same, Nanase supplies one.

"Yes," she says, "his remains were found in the…forest." Her composure abandons her at the mention of the forest. She had personally seen to the unearthing of his remains. And it certainly was an _unearthing _. Despite the short amount of time between death and discovery, he had been fully ensconced in the earth. The forest had claimed him in death. He was all roots and flowers by the time of discovery.

"How proud he must be to die of his own arrogance," Seiju remarks coldly. A piece of paper crumples in her fist. She finds herself standing when all she can remember is sitting down at Father's—no, _her _—desk. Her fist unclenches and she smooths down the paper. She seats herself.

Nanase and Seiju do not look at each other.

* * *

"Keep this up and you'll be your generation's Natsume Reiko," Nanase mutters. Her grip is firm around her wayward charge's arm.

"Why, Nanase-san," Seiju murmurs, "that's awfully uncharitable of you." She casts a sly look at Nanase, out of the corner of her eyes.

* * *

Seiju picks up a shapeless short-sleeved hoodie. She eyes it contemplatively, holding it against her body.

"No," Nanase says without looking over. Her hands skim across clothing racks. A moue of distaste pinches her mouth.

* * *

A careless rustle of dead leaves heralds Seiju's exit from the forest. Twigs and leaves decorate her snarled waist-length hair. Her uniform skirt hikes up around her thighs and her blouse has smudges of dirt. Her knee-highs droop unbecomingly. An outsider would say she looks like she has rolled around in a forest and they would be right. But she is triumphant in all her disheveled glory.

A clay pot rests in her delicate hands. A minute tremor runs through the pot but her hands steady its movement. She smiles down at it. There is something vicious in her baring of teeth, as if she is loosely restrained from using her teeth for more than just food.

Her classmates stay after school for clubs but the venue of her after-school activities is the greater world at large, deep into the shadowy forests where yōkai make merry and wreak havoc.

* * *

"You're a woman now," Nanase says. She eyes Seiju's form critically, lingering on her eyes. In her hands, a paper talisman dangles.

"I do love tradition," Seiju responds. Her hand reaches out. A grim smile adorns her face and narrows her dark eyes.

* * *

"Such power is wasted on a tiny thing like her," a middle-aged exorcist murmurs to his companion. His cold gaze scans over Matoba Seiju's slim form as she walks by. Her every step is deliberate arrogance with her shoulders tossed back and her hair streaming like a war banner.

"Well," his companion replies, "she's all the Matoba have now. Clan heiress, if you believe it."

"She's as much of a clan heiress as Natsume Reiko was an exorcist," the exorcist scoffs. "Not that Natsume even tried to be respectable. Can't believe that girl ran wild for who knows how many years."

"Not for lack of trying," his companion says. "She was as good as punching exorcists as she was at yōkai." A wince crosses his lined face. The veil of remembrance shrouds his face.

* * *

"Oh no," Seiju says monotone, "I have depth perception issues." She taps the tip of a finger against the seal on her eye. She smiles, sweetly apologetic.

A middle-aged exorcist stares blankly as water soaks his shirt. The crunch of glass beneath his shifting feet do little to enervate him.

* * *

"Shuuuuuichi," Seiju purrs shamelessly. She hangs off of Natori's shoulders. He shudders under her neatly groomed claws. Despite her diminutive stature and overtly feminine demeanor, Natori is _terrified _.

Matoba Seiju is a harpy that others have yet to recognize. His friends look on in envy as she continues to drape herself over his back. They don't feel the strength in her arms, honed from archery and bows with increasingly terrifying draw weights. She hides her lightly corded arms under the gauze of her prim cardigan.

The sweep of her long black hair releases a burst of fragrance—sharp and clean from her shampoo. Her pointed chin rests in the crook of his neck. He cringes with that primal fear of a predator too close to an artery.

"Please stop calling me Shuuichi," Natori hisses. He can't stand the way she pretends at an intimacy that they will never share. The feel of her unyielding body against his is unsettling. Her body is a weapon when her honeyed words and sweet looks garner no result.

"My boyfriend is so cruel," Seiju sighs out, ever the martyr. "All tsun and no dere."

Natori sputters in rage as his friends hoot with laughter. She makes him feel so clumsy that he can't help but react to her provocations. She's manipulating him and he can't help but fall into her trap. Though to what purpose she seeks to enrage him for is beyond him. He doesn't know why she keeps on seeking him out.

"I'm _not _your boyfriend!" Natori grits out. His friends are, as always, continually baffled by his rejection of what they perceive as a simple pretty girl. Nevertheless, Natori shrugs her off in a vicious, jerking movement.

A little huff escapes Seiju's rosebud mouth. She feigns pain at the abrupt dislodging with a moue of dismay. Her dark, wide eyes capture him. The wet shine to them make him hesitate. His hand reaches out in an aborted movement. Her eyes flick down and a foxlike smile raises the edges of her mouth. He sneers at her, losing any vestiges of goodwill he had for her.

* * *

"I hate you," he whispers against her lips. He can feel the curve of her smile.

"Funny," she hums. She leans in further, capturing his lips with an imperious tilt of her hand. Her hand tugs him down further. He does not make it easy but eventually he succumbs to the allure of her warmth. Her body presses against his, slotting curves.

He tangles a hand in the silk of her hair. The tugging motion elicits a kiss-muffled moan. They fall into bed, drunk on alcohol and lust. It is a fight of dominance neither want to lose and yet they find pleasure in their loss.

The morning dawns with the oranges and reds of regret. A slow transition from sleep to wakefulness muddles their minds. Their heads and mouths throb with ill use. The rasp of hair on fabric captures his attention. Regret dawns on him.

She awakens with no regrets. There is something grotesque in her foxlike smile, as if she were the predator and he, the prey. He does not enjoy this realization that he has played into her hands. She is so good at embracing vulnerability in search of a greater reward.

There is an unnatural shine to her dark eyes, like a glossy photo of a painting, two times removed from reality. Her long eyelashes flutter in deliberate blinks. She stares at him. "I suppose you're going to kick me out," she says.

"You'd be right," he says with a caustic tone.

"Always so cruel," she sighs. She slides out of the bed with all the grace she shouldn't have. Her bare form does not inhibit her confidence. Spellbound, he cannot help but watch her glide over to her clothes. She clothes herself in silence.

"Goodbye," she croons with a beguiling twist of her hips as she walks away. He sinks back into his sheets, caught up in the scent of her.

What have they done?

* * *

_UNLOVED_, the poster proclaims on a storefront window. Natori Shuuichi's hand brushes against his forehead and shifts hair. There is a melancholy look to his wan face that emphasizes the bleakness of the album cover color palette.

"Shuuichi," Seiju sighs, "you melodramatic idiot."

She enters the store.

* * *

"Shuuichi, did you ever think that maybe you were the one who pushed everybody away? That maybe the source of your abandonment issues was _you _. You were so lonely that you couldn't help but continue to reject anybody who tried to get close to you."

"Stop drunk-calling me, Matoba."

Seiju is weirdly eloquent under the influence. But painfully honest, Natori hates to realize. Her lowered inhibitions makes havoc of her carefully cultivated persona and plans.

* * *

"Hmm, do you want to see what's under this seal, Natsume?" Seiju asks sweetly. "Want to learn what befriending yōkai will do to you?"

Despite Seiju's height, she still towers over Natsume. He clutches Nyanko-sensei in his hands. Uncertainty makes havoc of his pale face.

"Oi, old lady!" Nyanko-sensei growls. "Leave Natsume alone!"

Nyanko-sensei jumps out of Natsume arms. With a pop of displaced air, his form lengthens and enlarges. He looms protectively over Natsume in his greater form.

Rearing back, Seiju scowls. "I suggest controlling your…_ pet_, Natsume," she sniffs. Old! She is in the prime of her life, thank you very much.

* * *

Amorphous and spindly shiki trail behind her. They dwarf her in height, but she is the one in quiet control of them. Her every command is obeyed.


End file.
